


In Our Bedroom After the War

by orphan_account



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Alternate Reality, F/M, Medical Experimentation, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-12 03:11:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13538445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Time twists. Seconds stutter. Moments, memories, mirages. She is broken, mind and body. Jill Valentine loses herself. Finds herself. Gets stuck in the spaces in between.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here's the first chapter to something a little bit different. I saw a prompt on tumblr a while ago talking about characters living multiple realities, while being aware of them all at the same time. I wanted to see if I could fit that into the world of RE, and I thought poor Jill would be the perfect target. She's got enough trauma for like, fifty-seven people. That's bound to have some kind of weird effects on her.
> 
> So here's the start of a mess. A disorienting, nonsense mess. Jill torn between three different times, three different universes. What does a person's mind do, when it's pushed beyond breaking? What tethers someone to reality, and what happens when that tether snaps? What makes a life real?
> 
> The title is a song by (fittingly enough) Stars. It's quintessentially Chris/Jill, in my opinion. It's gorgeous.

* * *

_Listen, the birds sing_  
_Listen, the bells ring_  
_All the living are dead, and the dead are all living  
_ _The war is over and we are beginning_

* * *

She wakes up in a glass case.

A butterfly with pins in her wings.

_she cannot breathe_

A wisp of hair, white-gold, floats in front of her face.

Liquid clouds her vision. It's hot. Cold. Hot. It stings.

_she cannot breathe_

She screams.

She tries to scream.

She tries to scream around the tube in her throat.

Thrashing. Kicking. White hair in her face. Glass that won't crack. Shapes of people outside, wavering through the water that stings her eyes and she tries to tell them  _she cannot breathe_ but there's a tube in her throat and it traps the words.

She comes back to life choking for air. The same way she left.

* * *

She wakes up on an exam table. Cold metal. Cold skin. Cold air.

Warm hands.

She is half-aware. The world feels stuck, stuttering, frame after frame freezing in place.

move _pause_ move _stop_ move _still_

 _Move,_ she tells herself.

 _Fight,_ she tells herself.

 _Run,_ she tells herself.

All paused. All still.

She tells herself again, again, but her muscles don't move. Can't make a finger twitch. Can't force her eyes open.

A sedative, maybe, but she isn't numb. There is a sharp prick on the skin of her chest.

She feels it.

Then another.

And another.

She feels them.

More, sharp, swift. Precise. A circle near her heart.

And then there is a weight. The cool weight of metal against her sternum.

Still. Pause. Stop. Still.

And then  _burrowing._ Needles being pushed deeper. Deeper into her chest. Too deep, and pain spreads like flames licking out across her skin.

Deeper.

Metal and tubes and needles and  _deeper._ Through flesh and muscle and rushing blood.

Tearing. Digging. Intruding.

Settling.

"Slowly," he says to the attendant. His voice.  _Move fight run._ His voice. "Start slowly."

When the serum rips through her, it's like acid in her veins.

* * *

She is already awake.

_get up, jill_

It burns. The air. Her skin.

_get up, jill_

The thing on her chest burns.

_higher dose_

Higher, higher, higher, and there's a needling in the back of her mind, a voice like a hornet trapped in a window. Buzzingthuddingbuzzing and it's shining black and sharp with gossamer wings.

"Get up, Jill."

The voice scratches her. The stinger's lodged beneath her skin. She can't scrape it free.

She gnashes her teeth. Bites her lip. Tastes blood. Copper pennies on her tongue.

She fights the voice, the way it rises inside of her and fills the empty spaces and echoes through her hollow bones.

"Get up, Jill."

_get up, jill_

Three words. Three words and she fights them harder than she has fought anything in her life.

She will not  _get up, jill._ She will not listen to  _get up, jill._ She will not move for the voice. She will not, but her muscles shake, her muscles quiver, her muscles ache, she burns, her veins burn, the voice burns, and she wraps her fingers around the edges of the metal table and grips and grips and  _grips_  until she feels blood dripping from them, anything to silence the voice and it's his voice and it's her voice and they twist together until she can't feel the differences anymore-

"Get up, Jill."  _get up jill get up jill get up jill get up jill get up jill_

She screams over it.

Screams. She screams. She is screaming.

Her throat is raw.

_Higher dose._

_Get up, Jill._

* * *

She wakes up with a hand on her cheek.

"Jill, babe. I'm here. It's okay."

She blinks. The room is dark, and the clock on the nightstand reads 4:13. She feels woozy. Wave-tossed.

_liquid in a glass case_

She tries to jolt upright, but there's a sharp pain in her ribs, her hips, her legs. Her everything.

"Hey, hey, hey." Chris is talking quickly. His hand is on her face. In her hair. "Not so fast."

Her eyes dart around wildly. Her breath seizes in her chest.

It's their apartment. It's their bedroom with the light blue walls, and the grey sheets, and the cactus on the windowsill, and the closet with the white slatted folding door, and the silver-trimmed mirror on the wall, and the grey boxy nightstands made of particle board, and the smell of citrus laundry detergent, and-

"I'm here. Calm down." He's speaking slowly. Quietly. Squeezing her shoulder, her upper arm.

Her heart is in her throat. In her mouth. On her tongue. She's choking on it. She's always choking.

"Chris?" The word is raw and the edges are ragged, like she's ripped it from a book. She tries to sit up. Tries to look at him. She can't move. She can barely speak.

_glass case and a tube down her throat_

"Take it slow." He rubs her back. Soothing circles with his hand. "You wanna sit up?"

It's his face. She looks at the face and it's  _his,_ weathered and weary and worried. A few days worth of stubble. Bags under his eyes.

"Chris, is...are you here?"

"Yeah." His voice is hoarse and heavy. "Yeah, babe, you were dreaming again. I'm here."

"I don't know what...where…"

She can't find the words. She tries to find them but they're hidden. They're hiding and she looks underneath and around and above and she can't find them. They slipped through her fingers and she lost them.

_Where am I._

_Where am I. What happened._

Those are the words.

_can't breathe_

He shushes her. Holds her still and steady. Her body aches. "Give it a minute. It'll pass."

_She was dreaming._

_can't breathe_

"I don't...remember...I don't know..."

"You're home. You're safe. You'll remember in a minute." He swallows the words she can't find with his own. "It always takes a little bit. Keep breathing." He swallows the words she can't find with a kiss. Soft. Warm. Lips that fit hers.

_can't breathe_

* * *

She wakes up.

The ground is wet and her body is broken.

The mansion looms above them, high on the cliff.

Rain falls, cold and prickling.

Beneath her, glass.

Rocks.

Sharp.

She struggles to breathe. Shattered ribs. Bones in fragments, ripping through flesh. Torn muscles.

She is dying.

She is dying, but Chris is alive.

Chris is alive.

Drops of rain cling to her lashes. She struggles to hold her eyes open.

The world wavers, and tilts, and bleeds black at the edges.

She is dying.

Chris is safe.

It is over.

* * *

She is already awake.

She stares at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Her hair is the color of chestnuts. Long, with a patch shaved short on the left side. A shunt to relieve the pressure in her skull.

_It will grow back._

Her arm is in a stiff plaster cast. Her leg as well. It itches. She leans heavily on crutches. She moves awkwardly, stiltedly.

_It will heal._

There's a bruise beneath her left eye. Her cheek is scratched. Her lip is swollen. Her brow is marked with a line of neat stitches.

_They will fade._

Her chest...the skin is pale.

Smooth.

Untouched.

"You should go back to sleep."

Chris is leaning against the doorway, watching her.

Two hours have passed since she woke up. He held her hand. He helped her out of bed. He talked to her softly, carefully, each word selected with an eerie sort of precision.

It's something he's done again, and again, and again. A well-rehearsed routine.

_Post-traumatic amnesia._

_Should only last a few months. Probably._

_Things will start coming back. Start making sense. Slowly._

_Slowly._

_slowly_

_metal claws digging into her skin and his voice digging into her skin_

Chris says she fell.

She fell from the window. She pushed him - Wesker - she pushed him through, and she fell.

They fell.

Glass fell around them like snow, like crystals.

Her arms were locked tight around his waist.

She remembers that. She remembers the rain and remembers the rocks and remembers the cold leather against her cheek.

She remembers the agony.

She remembers other things. The lab. The metal in her chest. The serum. His voice.

"They feel like memories," she tells Chris. She tells herself, eyes locked on the quicksilver surface of the mirror. "They feel so real."

"I know." He walks forward to stand behind her. He puts his hands on her shoulders. Their eyes lock in the mirror. "You have that same dream every couple of weeks. It'll...probably stop, too, when the memory loss does...just your brain filling in gaps, yeah? Making stuff up, that's what Dr. Evans said…"

They found her on top of Wesker.

Both alive, barely. Him more than her.

He was taken into custody. Held by the BSAA. No plea entered. Proceedings handled by military tribunal, starting in less than a month.

She was a hero. She was the girl who had saved the world. The girl who had leapt to her death to end it all.

The girl who had locked her arms around him as they fell. Buried her face in his coat, seeking comfort, waiting to shatter.

A hero, but a broken one. Not mending quickly enough for the commission. Not putting the pieces back together.

Chris would testify.

She would not.

 _Unreliable witness,_ they called her.

 _Bunch of assholes,_ Chris called them.

She'd remember. It would come back.

Give it time.

Slowly.

_slowly_

* * *

She wakes up in a glass case.

A butterfly with pins in her wings.

_this has happened before_

A wisp of hair, white-gold, floats in front of her face.

Liquid clouds her vision. It's hot. Cold. Hot. It stings.

_this is a dream_

It does not feel like a dream. There is pain. Panic. Choking.

A scream that tries to claw claw claw its way out of her, around the tube in her throat.

People are outside the glass.

They will drain the liquid. They will catch her limp, listless body as she falls. They will pull the tube from her throat while she gasps for air. They will sedate her, and he will come to her with his voice, with the device, with the stinging serum that turns her blood against her.

He will say  _slowly._

She closes her eyes, and thinks of Chris.

_this is a dream_

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of a keyboard.

She's curled on her left side.

She feels lazy. Lethargic. Sore in the best of ways - tender between her legs, and she stretches like a cat, arching her back.

She can move now. Body lean and lithe. Muscles and joints working easily, all in unison. Her arms stretch above her head, fluid and graceful.

There is no cast.

She blinks, looking at the pale expanse of her arm in the moonlight. She's topless. Warm. Her skin looks healthy. Her muscles aren't stiff.

She turns, testing the rest of her body. Nothing aches. Hair falls across her eyes.

Brown.

She breathes a sigh of relief.

Maybe the fall was the dream.

A memory.

Maybe she's better.

Maybe she's whole again.

Maybe the trial has come, and gone, and they have  _won,_  and it is over.

Chris will explain.

 _It will come back. Give it time._ That's what he tells her, again and again and again.

She's safe in her bed. Safe with him beside her.

She snuggles closer to him, and breathes in deep against his bare skin. He smells different. Smells like spices. Ground clove and cardamom and peppercorns.

He  _feels_ different. Sleeker. Sharper.

But he shifts beside her, accommodating her as he pecks methodically at the laptop, and she fits against him like she's meant to be there. So she lies still, breathing in the peppercorn-and-spice scent, enjoying the languid weight of her own body. The way nothing hurts. The way the dream - the lab, the voice, the fear - all drift away as the seconds pass, and reality settles in around her.

"I'm sick of those fucking nightmares," she mutters into his shoulder, burrowing closer.

She doesn't know if she's told him about the dreams before. She told some version of him. In the past. In another layer of another dream.

She's used to not knowing. She's used to not knowing  _where_ or  _what_ or  _how._ She's used to being told they've talked about it before. That they haven't talked about it. That it's real. That it isn't.

_It will come back. Give it time._

She's used to fog. She's used to half-shapes. Half-colors. She's used to memories that are, and that aren't, and that might be. Could be. The tangle of dreams and not-dreams.

He's patient. He's kind. He's steady. He helps her pull them apart, one by one, and set them in the right places.

"Mm."

She nestles still closer. She's practically on top of him. The feeling between her legs - warm, stretched, full - is enough to fill in the gaps of  _where what how_ tonight. She smiles against the skin of his shoulder.

"I won't argue if you wanna help me fall back asleep," she mutters, and her words drip in the dark, long and loose.

There's the sound of laughter above her. Warm. Rich. She feels it rumble in his chest.

She looks up at him, planning to give him a seductive smile. To slip a teasing hand beneath the sheet.

Instead of Chris smiling back, Albert Wesker glances down at her.

_Playfully._

"And I'd be happy to assist," he says, eyes - blue as ice - darting back to the monitor. "But I'm still in the middle of this."

She freezes.

One arms snakes around her.

"Irons bumped his retirement up by a month this afternoon. I don't think the word's out yet." His ice-blue eyes scan the screen. "Better to have him sign off on the report than whoever…"

His words fade.

His lips move.

He's toying with the ends of her hair.

Brown.

Brown hair.

Brown. Long. A curtain around her face, her shoulders.

His hand slips to the dip of her collarbone.

His fingers trace loops and swirls, eerily familiar patterns, on the bare skin.

She can barely hear his voice over the roar in her ears.

Static.

White noise.

Glass breaking.

Wind rushing.

_get up, jill_

_she can't breathe_


	2. Chapter 2

_I occasionally feel vague how_  
_vague idon't know tenuous Now-_  
_spears and The Then-arrows making do_  
_our mouths something red,something tall_

_-"Let's Live Suddenly Without Thinking," E. E. Cummings_

* * *

_A dream._

She closes her eyes tight. Tight tight tight  _tight_ and she thinks of Chris.

She thinks of him. His arms, warm and welcoming. His smell, deep and rich.

She thinks of him, because it's a dream, the same way the lab is a dream, the same way it's all a dream, because she's broken. She's a broken girl with a broken mind with a broken body with a TBI with years of therapy ahead of her and doctors and doctors and doctors that all bleed together, exam rooms that all bleed together, it's all a dream-

The keyboard clatters.

She smells spices.

She lets out a little noise - something like a growl, like a whimper, and she grips the sheet in her fist, twisting the fabric.

"Do you need some Advil?"

It's his voice. It's his  _voice_ and it's not inside her, it's not burrowing or twisting or burning. It's not diving deeper and deeper.

It's just his voice, and it's asking her if she needs any Advil.

_It's a dream._

She opens her eyes. He's staring down at her. She can barely see his face - only the line of his jaw, caught in the glow of the monitor, and the shimmer of his eyes, not so icy now as the bedroom shadows slip across them.

She doesn't answer. She just stares. Frozen, with tense tight muscles, waiting like a tiger crouched in the corner of an iron-barred cage. Watching him carefully. Watching for the slightest shift in his features. The slightest movement. Ready for him to throw the laptop aside, to lunge at her, to wrap his hands around her throat and-

"You look like you have a headache," he says flatly. He turns back to the screen. "Is the monitor keeping you up?"

_This is a dream._

"This is a dream," she whispers.

He laughs. Or he  _snorts,_ tapping the backspace key several times. "This is what you dream about?"

She closes her eyes.

_She isn't here._

She closes her eyes, and she breathes deep and long and slow, and she counts.

She counts to ten.

She counts to fifty.

She counts to a hundred.

_open your eyes_

She isn't here. It's just a dream. It will end soon.

He's asking her questions. He's moving. He's setting the laptop on the nightstand, and there's a hand on her face, and she bites down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming  _don't touch me_ and he keeps touching her, and he says her name, and his voice feels like splinters in her skin, and he tells her to open her eyes, and she grips the sheets so tightly her knuckles ache-

* * *

_open your eyes_

There's half a grapefruit in front of her.

She stares at it.

She hates grapefruit. Stringy pulp and a sharp, bittersweet taste.

She  _used_ to hate grapefruit. It's her new breakfast, now. Her new breakfast in her new-old life.

"It was the first thing you wanted when you could chew again," Chris says, watching her eye the plate skeptically.

"Chew again?" She prods the fruit with the tip of her spoon.

"The, uh. Your jaw." He's shoveling a fork full of scrambled eggs into his mouth as he speaks, his eyes drifting down to the plate. He chews quickly, and his words are a dull mumble. "Had to be wired shut for a while."

_Wired shut._

She wonders just how long this  _recovery_ has taken. But instead of asking, she nods, and scoops up a spoonful of blush-pink flesh, sparkling with sugar. She raises it to her lips, wincing at the smell. But she takes a breath, and pops it into her mouth, napkin in hand, ready to spit it out.

Instead of spitting, she chews thoughtfully. It's not as awful as she remembers.

And they're silent for a moment, as they eat. Nothing but the sound of spoons, forks, plates. The hum of the morning news in the background. Cloudy skies for a week. Rain on Thursday.

"Did I look bad, when they found me?" she asks at last, after four more bites of grapefruit. She tries to keep her voice even, and she dabs some juice from the corner of her lip.

She can't help but ask. It's a question that feels like sandpaper. It's a gap she can't fill in, a thing she can't even begin to remember.

And she hasn't asked yet.

Or she doesn't  _think_  she's asked yet.

Maybe she has. Maybe she's asked sixty times.

He pushes a lump of eggs around on his plate. Silver tines rake through yellow-white fluff.

The plates are white with cobalt blue trim.

The kitchen is white with cobalt blue counters.

Her favorite color. Calmness. Serenity. Deep, still waters.

When he says  _yeah,_ it's a small answer. A speck of dust. It floats between them, caught in a current of air.

He doesn't meet her  _(open your)_ eyes.

* * *

She gasps for air.

Her lungs ache. She shudders on the table as feeling floods her muscles, her nerves. As everything in her jolts back to life.

She can't open her eyes. She can't. She tries and she can't and everything in her screams, shatters, sparks. The world slants sideways and leaves her grasping for something to hold.

"It isn't sustainable." It's a woman's voice, rich and gold like honey, heavily accented. "Her body metabolizes it too aggressively-"

"I won't risk it." Sharp words, cold words, cutting. His voice over her, and under her, and around her, and inside her.

She is aware of everything. Aware of the table beneath her. Aware of the rise and fall of her chest as she breathes. Aware of the thing on her chest, in her chest. The metal thing with its hooks and its needles and its tubes. The metal thing pumping poison through her failing veins.

She has fought it.

She has fought it for weeks.

Days.

Hours.

She does not know.

"She handles the side effects-"

"I  _won't_ risk it." His voice is dark. His voice is beneath her, cradling her body. His voice is between her bones, filling in the empty shadowed spaces.

The woman only sighs in response.

She hears heels clicking, steady paces moving towards her, but she still can't force her eyes open. Fingers tap the edge of the table.

"Albert." The woman says his name softly. Cajolingly. "It won't kill her. At worst...maybe it breaks her. Maybe she loses herself." There's a hand, small and soft, touching her chest. A smoothly manicured nail scratching the place where skin meets metal. "Do you need her, though? Or do you need a weapon?"

_higher dose_

* * *

The dream hasn't ended.

She stayed in bed until he left. The time didn't pass like a dream. She felt each second crawling over her skin, a trail of ants, looping and wandering with legs that made her itch.

She got out of bed, and she took a shower. The hot water burned her skin. The cold water stung. She turned the handle back and forth. Back and forth.

Steam filled the room - a bathroom with white tile, stainless steel fixtures. With a cabinet full of pain medicine and antihistamines and cotton balls and cough syrup. Cleaning supplies and extra toilet paper under the sink. Two robes hanging on the door. Two toothbrushes, one blue, one grey. A half-empty tube of toothpaste, neatly squeezed from the bottom up.

A house. Just a house. Just a house with a bathroom.

The dream hasn't ended.

She stares at herself in the mirror. She watches as a bead of water trails down her cheek. Her neck. Settles in the dip of her collarbone.

She's been staring at herself for several minutes now. The glass is still steamy from the shower. The unfamiliar shower, with a waterfall head and a sliding door, and body wash scented like mint and rosemary.

There's a deep grey towel, soft and plush, tucked beneath her arms.

The face in the mirror is hers.

It's  _hers._  There are no bruises, or marks, or scars. There's no patch of fuzzy shaved hair. There are no stitches.

It's her. It's just her. Hair hanging loose and damp and stringy around her shoulders. Eyes without bags beneath them. Pale, smooth skin.

It's her. And she looks fine.

Not tired.

Not weary.

Not worn to the bone from fighting. From chasing. From running.

Just  _fine._

There's a quick knock on the door, and the knob turns. She clutches the towel closer around her, and her left hand grips the edge of the sink. But he only cracks it open. Not enough for her to really see him.

"I put some coffee on," he says through the crack. She can see steam curling into the bedroom. "Do you want an omelette?"

_Does she want an omelette._

She grips the sink tighter.

She opens her mouth. A sound escapes it, small and strangled.

"Jill?"

"I'm...not…"

"The usual?"

_The usual._

She has a  _usual_ here. With him. In this dream, where she smells like rosemary and mint and her cheeks are pink and full and the towel swallows her like a downy blanket.

"Um. Yes. Yeah." Her voice cracks around the words, unsure of what else to say.

_It's just a dream._

Just a long, vivid, unsettlingly realistic dream.

She can say anything.

It will end soon.

_open your eyes_

* * *

She's sore. Her body is sluggish. Simple things are not so simple, now. Dressing herself. Brushing her hair. Checking her wounds. Getting a snack, a glass of water.

Chris is always there. He's there with smiles and soft touches and sweet words.

_You're doing great,_ he says, again and again.  _You've come so far._

She's changing clothes now, slipping into a baggy pair of sweatpants and an oversized shirt. She works it carefully over the cast, over the healing ribs.

The S.T.A.R.S. logo on the front is faded. Washed too many times.

"I wish you'd get rid of that," Chris says. His words are not so soft and sweet now, even as he helps her gingerly shift her arm into place.

She looks at the logo, ignoring his words. She remembers this. S.T.A.R.S. She remembers all of it. She remembers the little office in the precinct. She remembers her uniform. She remembers meeting him, remembers being his partner, remembers the mansion, remembers Raccoon, remembers fighting, and fighting, and fighting-

She remembers everything up to the night of the fall.

After that, fog.

After that, fractured dreams. Waking up again and again - a lab, a bed with Chris, a bed without Chris. Lives that twist and tumble over one another.

_Dreams._ Not lives. Dreams.

This is it. Life. The real one. Soft touches, sweet words, simple apartment, sagging sweatpants that hang loose from her hipbones.

"I want to wear it," she mutters, eyes locked on her shape in the mirror. "It helps me remember things."

Her eyes are open wide, a dull shade of blue.

Behind her, Chris opens his mouth to say something. Then his lips close, and they purse tight together. He nods, quick and sharp.

She can still recognize when he's choosing his battles.

"We're meeting with Mr. Barrett today," he says, and before she can take a breath, he's answering her questions. "He's on the commission, heading up the interviews."

He's started explaining things before she asks. Anticipating the places that need patching up and smoothing over.

It almost makes her smile. But instead, she frowns, tugging at the hem of the worn, ratty t-shirt. "Why does he need to talk to-"

"They need statements from you. Again." The last word is a weary sigh, and she turns to see him sit heavily on the bed, rubbing a hand across his face.

He's tired.

He's very tired.

"Again?"

He nods. "You've given...five, officially. I think."

Her brows knit together.

"They don't...they never match." He says it, and he lets out a heavy puff of air. He lays back against the mattress, his eyes drifting to the ceiling. "They want to try one more time."

She turns back to the mirror, looking herself up and down. Blood and bruises. Bones setting, mending.

She looks at her body, and wonders why it isn't statement enough. Why they can't see everything they need to written on her skin.

_open your eyes_ but they're already open. They're open, and she's awake.

She stares into them.

* * *

She's walking down to the kitchen.

The dream-kitchen. The kitchen that isn't hers. The kitchen that isn't anywhere, isn't anything.

Her footsteps echo down the dream-halls.

It's a nice house. It's bright and airy, with high ceilings and tall windows. It's all light wood and white walls, bookshelves full of plants and keepsakes.

Full of pictures.

Pictures of her, hair cut in a short bob. Standing in front of a waterfall - a little sweaty from a hike. Albert Wesker next to her, his arm draped over her shoulders.

Pictures of a trip to Paris. Scenic views, famous landmarks, sidewalk cafes. Jill glaring at the camera with half a raspberry macaron in her mouth.

Pictures of his arms around her waist. His lips against her cheek. His face in her hair, hiding half a smile.

The kitchen smells like peppers and onions and bacon, and it's enough to make her stomach lurch. A pot of coffee bubbles and splutters on the counter.

He doesn't look up as she walks by. She's wearing the robe - not sure where her clothes are, not sure what she's supposed to  _do_ in a dream where she's living with Albert Wesker and he's cooking her breakfast. So she stands, and she watches as he pulls down two mugs, pouring them full of steaming coffee. One black, with a bit of sugar. One with a splash of cream.

He passes the sugared coffee to her.

"You didn't sleep well," he says, turning back towards the stove. He takes a quick sip from his own mug.

She's silent. She clutches the cup. The ceramic is warm. Hot. Almost uncomfortable.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong? Or are we going to keep this up all day?" He works the spatula beneath an omelette, placing it on a plate.

White plate with blue trim.

Her stomach churns again.

_It's a dream. Same plates._

_It's a dream._

"If it's about the report," he's saying, reaching for the cardboard carton of eggs, "I'll be finished-"

"What's happening?"

He turns, spatula in hand, and stares at her.

"I'm making breakfast," he answers. Flat and dull.

"Why...why are you here? Why am I here?"

"Jillian." He looks at the clock on the stove. "We have to be at the precinct in an hour. As much as I'd love to wax philosophical with you-"

"You want to kill me," she says, words bursting out.  _Just a dream._ "You...you tried."

If it's a dream, it doesn't matter what she says.

If it's a dream, it doesn't matter what she does.

She can see sunflowers out the kitchen window behind him. She watches them sway in the breeze, tall and bright. Cheerful in the pale morning light.

He frowns, and cracks another egg in the bowl beside him.

"The same nightmares, then?" he asks, stepping on the pedal to open the trash can, tossing the splintered shell inside. "About the mansion? The city?"

She doesn't answer.

He beats the eggs. The wire whisk clatters against the edges of the glass bowl.

"I think you need to see someone," he says, after a moment of tense, terse silence. "Talk to someone."

He adds the eggs to the pan. Too hot. They sizzle. They splatter. The smell of burnt peppers and onions is overwhelming.

"This damn case is getting to you." He tosses the cutting board into the sink. His movements are rough. Abrupt. "I knew it would. You need to tell Irons it's too much…"

His words fade in and out as he lifts the pan away. She stares at the burners. The gas flame flickers.

"And you need to tell your  _partner…"_ the glass bowl follows the cutting board, a loud clanking in the metal sink. He spits the word  _partner_ like it's venom.

The burner is still on.

And she is still dreaming.

And she watches it like she's mesmerized, taking a step forward. A little white-blue flame, a flickering ghost.

A glowing metal coil.

It's a dream.

_It's a dream._

She can do anything.

"...if he'd do any work, maybe you'd be able to sleep at night.  _That's_  what you should tell Irons..."

She reaches her hand out, words whipping around her like a wintry gust of wind. There and gone again.

She hears his voice rising, sharp and sudden.

Her palm touches the metal.

Touches the flame.

_open your eyes, jill_

It hurts.

* * *

_she hurts_

"-miraculous results. I'm sure you remember how... _unfortunate_  the first subjects-"

_her body hurts_

She hasn't moved in days, months, years, she hasn't moved an inch, even with the liquid being pumped through her. A steady stream of pain and fury and fire.

She feels someone moving next to her.

Feels them leaning down, fabric brushing her face.

Feels breath against her ear, hot and heavy.

"Open your eyes, Jill."

She won't.

_she won't she won't she won't she won't she isn't going to she won't she's going to keep them closed she's going to-_

_Open your eyes, Jill._

All at once, all of a sudden, the voice cuts through her like a knife. It cuts through strings of tendons and muscles. It saws through bones. It tears her clean in two, a serrated command, and her body responds like it was a current of electricity, rippling through her from top to bottom. It rends her to shreds, and it pierces her like a dagger between the ribs, and she feels herself falling, feels herself failing. Feels the voice slipping through the cuts and the tears. Feels it swimming through her blood.

Feels it everywhere.

Hears it everywhere.

She opens her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

_I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;_  
_I lift my lids and all is born again._  
_(I think I made you up inside my head.)_

-"Mad Girl's Love Song," Sylvia Plath

* * *

She's a wild, feral creature. There's a wolf in her throat.

She hears it growl as he slams her to the ground.

Her shoulder hits the concrete. There is pain - a quick shock as her body recoils from the impact - but it registers as a dull glow. A muted warmth through nerves and limbs, all numb and heavy.

He takes three-four-five-six steps away, determined strides, and he turns, watching her.

She pushes herself up, propped on one elbow. She wipes a drop of blood from her lips. The skin is split. A strike to the face, too quick to dodge.

"Again," he says, readying himself. Shifting into something like a low, loose crouch. A panther in the brush.

 _Again,_  and the command rattles through her, and she is ready too, on her feet as soon as he says the word. And she is no panther, but there is blood on her teeth, and blood on her tongue.

She barely tastes it. Barely feels it.

She is  _more,_ now, after the awakening. After she opened her eyes. She is more, and the world is less. She is swifter. She is stronger. She is sleeker. The world has snapped into focus, and the edges of things are clear and straight.

The edges of things are simple.

The edges of things are meaningless.

And so he trains her. He trains this new body rigorously, sharpening it to a fine point. Day after day spent sparring, learning to work new muscles, new joints. A new mind. Testing the limits of his tool.

"Looser stance," he says. Snaps.

She spreads her legs wider. Bends them slightly at the knees.

He moves, a flash of black and grey.

She blocks the first strike with her forearm.

She twists away from the second.

Ducks beneath the third, spins out of his reach, tries to position herself behind him-

Not fast enough.

Sloppy. Unbalanced.

She is no panther.

He pins her against the wall with sharp, unforgiving force, crushing the air from her lungs.

She doesn't make a sound. He holds her there. The concrete is cold and hard. His fingers dig into her wrist, twisting her arm behind her back. She bites the tip of her tongue.

His face is close to hers.

She inhales. One breath, sharp through her nose. She smells rusted metal, damp stone. Old things. Forgotten things.

She smells him. Steel and storm clouds. Shackles and syringes.

She is no panther, but there is a wolf in her throat, and it bares its fangs.

"Again," he whispers, stepping back.

_Again._

_and again_

* * *

Her lips are dry.

They're cracking. She runs her tongue across them, and asks Chris if he has any chapstick.

He shakes his head.

She usually has some in her pocket. Her left pocket. A tube that smells like cherries. But in this new-old life, where she eats grapefruit and has a limping body held together with stitches and staples and metal rods, she leaves her chapstick at home.

So she picks nervously at the peeling skin. She tastes blood, and licks it away.

"How long does this usually take?"

He shrugs. "He's always kinda late."

They've been in the lobby for an hour. It's a plain government administrative building. Underfunded, untended. Peeling beige paint on the walls. Black leather chairs that creak with every move. Months-old magazines scattered on the tables.  _People. Reader's Digest. Good Housekeeping._

She stares at the cover of the last one. Springtime weddings. A multi-tiered cake. Fluffy white icing and delicate blue flowers sculpted from fondant.

_she wore a dress, off the shoulder, above the knee, simple silk, hair curled, upswept and pinned precisely with a delicate sparkling comb, a bouquet of white peonies and she hadn't wanted them but her mother had insisted and if she wasn't going to wear a gown she was going to carry the flowers and_

"You okay?"

She jumps a little. The chair squeaks in protest beneath her. "What?"

"You look...confused," Chris says. Delicate. Weighing the words, placing them down gently. Making sure they don't land heavy on her shoulders and shatter more bones.

"Oh. Yeah. I mean, no. I'm...I'm fine." She leans back in the chair, one hand on her knee, one picking at the padded handle of a crutch. She frowns, pushing the images - foreign things, figments - to the far corner of her mind. "Just nervous, I guess."

Chris snorts. "Don't be. Barrett's fine. He's a...marshmallow."

"A marshmallow?" There's a twitch in the corner of her lips, a hint of a smile.

"Yeah. Do you remember him? Tubby. Bald. Moves his hands all the time when he talks."

She nods.

She does not remember.

It takes five more minutes for Mr. Barrett to arrive. He's rotund, with a shining patch of skin on the crown of his head, just like Chris said. She swears she's never seen him before in her life, but he gives her a quick smile as he stumbles through the door, his briefcase banging against the frame. Edges of papers stick out through the cracks.

"Miss Valentine." He nods towards her, adjusting his tie, and she nods back. "Good to see you." He's nearly out of breath. He keeps fiddling with the tie, a black one with blue spots and a crooked knot, and he jerks his head towards the hallway. "Ready to get started?"

She struggles to rise from the chair, muscles shuddering as she moves. Chris is up in an instant, easing her into place against the crutches, hands fussing nervously around her. Positioning her arms, helping her shift her weight into place.

Another old routine.

"You got this," he says once she's upright and in place, giving her shoulder a light squeeze.

She gives him a shaky smile in return.

She hobbles down the hall after the man, turning to glance back over her shoulder once more. Chris gives her an encouraging grin, all teeth. A quick thumbs up.

"This won't take long," Mr. Barrett says, as he gestures to one of the empty offices, and she limps past him. "I'm sorry we had to call you in like this again."

_again, and again, and again_

* * *

He swears loudly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her hand away from the burner. The skin on her palm is red and angry. A raw color. It will blister soon.

It hurts.

It hurts, and she stares down at it, while his voice flutters around her like a moth. Worried words. Grey-brown wings.

It  _hurts._ Enough to make tears spring to her eyes. Enough to jar her out of sleep, if she were dreaming. Enough to-

" _Jill!"_ His voice is a sharp bark, and it cuts through the smoke that blankets her thoughts.

She looks at him and can feel the helplessness, the confusion, carved onto her face. Deep gouges. Her gaze drifts away from his eyes, back down to her hand. To his fingers, long and pale, curled around her wrist.

"I don't...understand…" she stammers, and her palm throbs. He's inspecting it carefully, and he mutters something just beneath his breath.

 _Fucking hell._ That's what he mutters, while he reaches around her, twisting the dial to turn off the burner. The flame flickers and dies.

His eyes are piercing shards of ice when he glares up at her. A mixture of anger, of worry, of things she cannot name. Looks that should be laced with red.

And all she can do is gape at him. At his glacial gaze. At the muscle working in his jaw. At the shining, seared skin on her hand, and the way his ghost-white fingers clutch at her.

"I'm going to get the first aid kit," he finally grinds out, letting go of her wrist. "Don't move. Don't...don't touch anything…" He trails off, raking a hand through his hair. Frazzled. Frenzied. "Jesus, no, come with me. Come on."

He grabs the sleeve of her robe, leading her to the downstairs bathroom, and she follows. Mute. Mouth full of moth wings.

_the wolf is gone or it is quiet or it is sleeping_

She walks in a haze. She walks in a dream-haze and she expects the floor to feel like clouds, like floating gauze, but it's hard beneath her bare soles, and the wood is cold, and each step feels real and rigid.

This bathroom is smaller. A shining cream-colored counter, a steel sink. A lavender hand towel and an air freshener that smells like sage plugged into one of the outlets. He bumps her shoulder when he opens the medicine cabinet, reaching for the top shelf.

"I don't know what the hell is happening with you," he half-growls. The contents of the first aid kit rattle as he slams it to the counter, flicking open the plastic latches. "The past month...a  _month,_ Jill. You're like a damn zombie."

He rifles through it, pulling out a roll of bandages and some ointment. He holds the bandages out to her.

"Hold these," he says, waving them impatiently. "First thing today -  _first thing_ \- you're asking Irons to pull you off that case, and I'm calling Doctor-"

She reaches for the roll of bandages, a nearly unconscious movement, and he falls silent. His eyes rest on her left hand. Uninjured. Outstretched.

His eyes  _should be red they're blue make them red look closer and they'll be red_ are narrowed when he raises them back to her face. "Did you lose your ring again?"

* * *

"We should go out, yeah? Somewhere nice."

Chris sits in the driver's seat, and his eyes dart towards her. She doesn't answer him.

It's evening by the time they leave, and the streetlights, headlights, city lights are all shimmering blurs along the edges of the highway. Gold and white flashing through the windows.

The interview took three hours.

Three hours of the short, round man walking her through the same looping questions.  _Name. Age. Background. Relationship. Dates. RPD. STARS. Arklay. Raccoon. BSAA. Estate. Name. RPD. Dates. Age. Arklay. Name. BSAA. Name. STARS. Background. Name. Relationship. Estate. Raccoon._

_Name._

_Estate._

_Fall._

_Name._

The same story, again and again and again, until her lips felt numb with the words. Until the dry skin split on its own, and the words tasted like blood, and she asked for a glass of water because her throat stung.

" _One more time, Ms. Valentine."_

_again_

"How about steak?" Chris asks. His voice is drowned out by the opening of  _Baba O'Riley_ on the radio. He drums his forefinger on the steering wheel.

" _As much as you can remember. Take your time."_

_again_

"A really giant fucking steak. From that place that does the mashed potatoes with the mushroom gravy."

" _He had Chris."_

_again_

He smiles, a cocked crooked smile, easing to a stop at an intersection. "Shit, my mom used to make the best mushroom gravy. I told you that, right?" He keeps tapping tapping tapping his finger in time to the song. "Claire wouldn't touch it. Gagged every time she tried to eat it."

" _He had Chris by the throat."_

_again_

"She still hates mushrooms. Picks them out of everything. But that shit was good. It was  _good."_

" _He was in front of the window."_

_again_

The traffic light flashes green. The song soars around them. He speaks louder. Too loud. She grips her knee, fingers digging into the muscle. "I don't know how Leon keeps her alive. You can count the stuff she'll eat on one hand."

" _I threw myself at him. Through the glass."_

_again_

"Definitely not as good as my mom's, but I'm in the mood for that," he says to himself with a quick nod. "And shit, we need a night out." He glances at her again. "Sound good to you?"

" _We fell. We hit the rocks."_

_again_

She nods, and turns back towards the window. She rests her temple against it. The glass is smooth, and the glass is cold, and the bass from the music hums through her, deep vibrations that rattle her teeth. Chris's voice fades beneath it.

_they fell and she held him tight so tight fingers digging into his coat eyes closed and she was afraid and not afraid and she breathed in deep against him and told herself things would end quick and quiet and his own fingers dug into her shoulder and the air was cold and he was warm and she thought of that and only that for a second that stretched on and on and on and on and it would be her last thought_

_before the rocks broke her_

_but she lived_

_she lived again_

* * *

She takes a quick step backwards, colliding with the doorframe.

He frowns at her, but turns away, twisting the faucet on. He wets his hands, lathering them with soap that smells like orange rinds.

Her heart is in her throat.

_Her ring._

A ring on her left hand and it's lost and she doesn't remember it. But she remembers the ice-colored dress. She remembers the cake, the flowers, the kiss beneath a burning blue sky, his lips on hers and a secret smile and his hand on the nape of her neck and his hand slipping the ring onto her finger and his hand twining with her hand and his hand-

"I need to see your hand," he says.

She shakes her head, once, quick.

He sighs, patting his hands dry on the towel. "I'm not upset about the ring. It always turns up. Just...let me see the burn." He moves towards her. "It needs-"

She flinches. Flutters away. And she shouts "no!"

The word echoes in the tiny sage-and-orange scented bathroom.

He freezes.

"Get away." The words are quieter, firmer, as she stumbles back through the door. She keeps her eyes on him, and there's confusion on his face, and weariness. A convincing mask, held firm and fast to his skin. "Get away from me."

His shoulders rise.

His shoulders fall.

When he speaks, it's calm, and measured, and the words feel like feathers balanced one on top of the other. A heavy breath would send them scattering. "I just need...to make sure that your hand…"

The sentence does not finish itself. She turns, she tears her eyes from the mask, she twists away from the door. She slips on the polished wood. The roll of bandages falls from her hand, unraveling, a beige ribbon trailing down the hall.

She can hear him behind her. Sighing. Following as she hurries, tripping, towards the kitchen.

"Jill…"

The room blurs, all shades of white and tan and splashes of golden light, as she reels towards the counter. She catches herself on it, injured palm on smooth granite. The pressure stings.

"Jill, stop…"

She's fumbling with one of the drawers. It clatters as she wrenches it open, and she digs through it. It's a tangle of black handles, steel utensils.

" _Jill."_ He says her name a little sharper now, and her fingers close around the handle of an old, dented chef's knife. Warped blade, stained, left in a drawer with forgotten ladles and spatulas. But still sharp.

She takes a step back, holding the knife up between them.

His eyes flicker  _blue normal icy blue_  with something that might be fear  _but it's a mask_ and he holds up his hands. The tube of ointment falls to the tiled floor.

He's silent for a moment, and the two of them stand there, staring at one another. The refrigerator hums behind her. The knife shakes in her hand. And then:

"Calm down." A cautious step forward. "Just listen-"

"No." She shakes her head, and hair flies in her face, strands catching in her mouth. She spits them out angrily. " _No,_ I'm not going to listen! Tell me what's going on! Where the hell am I?"

"Jillian-" He reaches towards her.

"Don't fucking  _touch_ me!"

He pulls his hand back. He's looking at her desperately, eyes searching hers, struggling to piece the moment together. He's looking at her like she's a stick of dynamite with a sparking fuse, growing shorter and shorter. He's looking at her like she's got a bomb strapped beneath her robe, finger tight on the trigger.

Like she's pointing a kitchen knife at him, daring him to take another step.

"You're home," he says, voice soft and laced with sadness. With worry. "You're with me. I'm here."

She talks through clenched teeth, words as rough as gravel. "Who the  _fuck_ are you?"

He closes his eyes - tight - and his lips draw into a thin line. He takes a sharp breath through his nose.  _Patience,_ he seems to be telling himself.  _Patience._

"We've been married for five years, Jill." He opens his eyes. "Five  _years._ You know who I am."

_Married._

He says it so plainly, so simply, and he looks at her with blue eyes, with gold hair, with his sharp-featured face and his worried jaw.

A jaw she's looked at for five years.

Five years of him.

_Five years._

Her knees give out, weak as rubber, and she hits the tile.

Whatever kept her standing is gone.  _Five years_ and it's gone, the thing that kept her upright, that kept her staring at dream-him, that kept her talking and moving and walking through the dream-world. And now she's limp. Lifeless. Wrung dry, collapsing in on herself.

She feels five years pressing down on her, pressing in around her, and she cannot breathe.

And she cannot think.

And she cracks - a thin, spidery crack - and the barest hint of a sob slips through.

He rushes forward, sinking to his knees beside her. He's saying something, whispering, touching. She feels his arms closing around her, pulling her against him. And for a moment she struggles, twisting away, but he tightens his grip. And she curls into herself. Into him. "I'm here, Jill. I've got you. Calm down."

And she sobs.

She never  _sobs._

Not at her mother's funeral  _(is she still alive?)_ Not at her father's  _(is he gone?)_ Not after Arklay, after Raccoon  _(did she imagine them?)_ But something about this place - the warm fluttering sunlight, and the freshness, and the comfort, and the polished wood and shining surfaces and the soft-scented air - it makes her crumble.

He rocks her gently back and forth, and the words catch in her throat,  _what's happening where am I who am I who are you I don't understand_ and she chokes on them. The sobs wrack her, shaking through her shoulders. The knife falls to the floor with a clatter.

His hand is in her hair. Petting, stroking, threading it through his fingers.

"I'm here. You're here. You're home," he says again.

And again.

And again.

* * *

"Albert." Warm golden honey-sweet glittering voice. Almost cooing, like a soft white dove perched on a branch above them. "The poor thing is exhausted. Look at it."

_Look at it._

_Look at it_  and the words aren't a command but they bore through the skin all the same.  _Look at it, look at it. Look at it._

She's - it's - panting. Beyond breathless, beyond winded. Lungs aching. Chest burning.

Her  _(its not hers)_ ribs are bruised, maybe broken, but they will heal quickly. He will heal them quickly. She _it_  can barely stand, even though he issued the command, even though he said  _again, again, again,_  and she- _it it it it no more she_ -tries to get its legs beneath  _(her there's still a her she can feel her just under the skin she can almost touch her almost see her)_ it but it can't.

Its  _jill's jill's_ hand slips against the wall when it _jill_  tries to push it- _her_ -self up.

He looks at…

"It won't be of any use if it doesn't recover," the honey-voice says. Excella. Her honey-voice drips over it, sticky and shining, coating its face, clinging to its eyelashes. It loses sight of the girl under the skin. The pale white girl with crystal eyes and hair like frost.

He looks at it. Red eyes watching the feeble, failing movements. Red eyes flickering, following the endless struggle to stand, to obey, but the body's too broken.

"Enough, then," he says, a softer voice.

He walks forward. Bends. Gathers it up - his arms under its bloodied knees, its pounding head against his chest. It curls close against him, tired and heavy and hurting.

It keeps its eyes closed. It sways with the movement of his steps.

* * *

It wakes up.

A hand, warm and gentle, trails up the slope of its hip.

"Jill," he says.

It - Jill - looks at him. Lashes fluttering. Body aching.

She parts her lips. They are dry.

"Do you feel well?"

She shakes her head.

_She sobs against his shoulder. Against the curve of his neck. The collar of his shirt is damp with tears._

"You metabolize the serum much quicker than other subjects have." He hands her a glass of water. She struggles upright, drinking deeply as he looks closely at the device. The machine, the scarab, the glowing red gem that glints dully in the light of the room. Already running low. He touches the glow. "You've heard us say as much, yes?"

"Yes," she rasps, setting the glass side. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand.

_Her fingers tighten around his shoulder and her hand aches and stings and throbs and her nails bite through the fabric and she trembles. She trembles on the kitchen floor and he cradles her and she curls closer against him, all warmth and spice._

" _Don't leave," she begs, sobs, not sure where the words are coming from. Not sure why she needs him to stay. But she clings to him. And she begs. And he says he won't._

"You handle the symptoms better, as well. It's all a very delicate procedure." He's talking slowly, plainly, and he lowers his hand. His eyes are locked on the red gem and his eyes are red and they glisten like it does, rubies and garnets. "It will take time to find the correct balance. And I know the conditions are...brutal. Punishing. But we must push forward."

She winces as he reaches back towards her, something in her screaming, shrieking, desperate to pull away.

She still nods.

" _I've got you," he says. Rocking. Rocking. Rubbing her back, urging her to take slow, steady breaths. "I've got you. You're home."_

_Home. Not home. She is nowhere she has ever been before. She is nowhere she is meant to be. She is not herself. She is not a thing she recognizes._

_She still nods._

His hand finds a pale blonde strand of hair, and he wraps it around his finger. It's thin, and brittle, and doesn't hold a curl.

"You must respond to anything," he says.

" _I'm right here," he says._

"You must respond to everything," he says.

_"Nothing can hurt you," he says._

He leans towards her, and his lips brush her ear.

_He leans over her, and his lips brush the crown of her head._

"Lie back," he whispers.

" _Hold onto me," he whispers._

And she does.

_And she does._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, please, please note that warnings have changed and will likely be relevant throughout the rest of the fic. Thank you all for reading!

_It comes oozing_  
_out of flowers at night,_  
_it comes out of the rain_  
_if a snake looks skyward,_  
_it comes out of chairs and tables_  
_if you don't point at them and say their names._  
_It comes into your mouth while you sleep,_  
_pressing in like a washcloth.  
_ _Beware. Beware._

-"The Evil Eye," Anne Sexton

* * *

He opens her suit.

He doesn't ask her -  _tell_ her - to do it. She lays on the bed, with simple white linens and a sturdy metal frame, and he works the zipper free himself.

It's slow. Arduously slow. He pulls it down tooth by metal tooth, and she feels the cold air of the bunker on each centimeter of exposed flesh.

He does not command her to stay still. He does not command her to be obedient, pliant. But her blood senses what he wants, and she takes a shuddering breath as the zipper reaches her waist

He stops, letting his hand linger there. A moment. One shuddering moment. And then it falls to his side. He sits back, eyes roving over the pale triangle of skin exposed by the gaping fabric. Wide at the shoulders, growing narrower as it reaches her hips.

"Show me your breasts," he says.

Something in her splinters.

She doesn't dwell on the splintering. Doesn't stop to think how it feels, a thousand little shards piercing the skin. She reaches up, mechanical, thoughtless, and pulls the fabric aside.

She wears nothing beneath it. Free of the tight material, the globes of her breasts are firm, as pale as the rest of her, and her nipples pucker in the air. Pink and pale and pale and pale. The color has been drained from her. Color and life and voice and thought and feeling and name and self and-

"Touch them," he says.

She raises a hand.

Mechanical. A well-oiled contraption.

* * *

She feels herself being lifted from the floor.

His voice floats around her. A hazy thing. Thin layers of organza, blue and grey, pale and dreamy. He's saying something.

_just hold on stay still don't move I've got you_

_touch them_

He lays her on the bed. She's shaking. Shivering. Her bones are aching. Her head is throbbing.

_asprin,_ he's saying.  _asprin_ and she doesn't know what he means but she nods, closing her eyes tight.

He's there and then he's gone and then he's back again, and he's holding a little round pill to her lips. She twists away.

_asprin,_ he says again, more insistently, with his hand on her jaw. His fingers are cold.  _for the pain_

_touch them_

The capsule slips between her lips. He holds up a cup of water, and she takes a quick sip before falling back against the pillows. Her pulse races.

_touch them._ It's a pounding, ceaseless rhythm, rushing through her veins.  _touch them touch them touch them_

He lifts her hand. Her throbbing hand, but she likes the way it feels, likes the dull thrum of pain, likes the way it grounds her, the way it grows roots and tethers her down, down, tethers her to the dream-ground so she can't break free. So she doesn't float away, back to the cold air and the cold bed and the cold voice.

_careful,_ he says.

_blister,_ he says.

_not hospital,_ he says.

She catches his words in fragments, fractures. She feels a cool and soothing cream spreading across her palm. Feels him wrap the hand in bandages.

_calling in today,_ he says. There and gone and his voice in the hallway and then back again. A loop, a spiral. All grey, all blue.

She feels the mattress shift under his weight. He lays beside her, and for a moment, a minute, a second, an hour, he doesn't move.

She doesn't open her eyes.

He slips his arm around her waist, and his face is against her neck, buried in the long soft locks of her hair.

_jill,_ he says, the name a breath on her skin.  _jill, jill, jill._

_touch them,_ he says in a voice that is his, and isn't his. No breath on her skin. No grey-blue mist.

_touch them_

* * *

She holds the left breast in her palm, feeling the familiar weight, the soft curve. The way the flesh overflows her hand. The taut peak of her nipple rests in the valley of her two middle fingers.

"No, Jill." He shakes his head with a pleasant smile, as if he's correcting a child's arithmetic. "Touch them. The way I want you to."

_no,_ a splinter says. A thought torn from the others with sharp, scratching edges.  _no, no, no_ but she ignores it, ignores the scraped-raw skin it leaves behind.

She takes her nipple between her thumb and forefinger, applying the slightest pressure.

She hasn't been touched in...she doesn't know how long. But from the way her body responds to that one simple action, she assumes it's been a long time. Too long. Heat begins to pool in her belly, tendrils of it spreading through her limbs.

Perhaps it's the newness of this body. The freshness. Snapping a young twig from a tree and smelling the sweet green pulp and feeling the dampness inside.

New nerves, fresh nerves, sweet green nerves.

He can sense it, too. She can tell by the way he shifts. The way he leans forward.

The way his hand rests, hot and heavy, on her exposed stomach.

"Take off the suit," he says.

* * *

"Ma'am?"

She's staring at the menu. The words drip and bleed and scatter. Cuts of beef, starchy sides, overdressed salads.

She blinks down at it, trying to remember what she wants.

Trying to remember what she  _eats._

"Um…"

The waiter shifts. He lets out a breath that's trying desperately not to be a sigh.

"I'll...I'll have the same," she says, and she's not sure what the  _same_ is, but it's an answer. A good enough answer. The waiter nods.

Chris reaches out, patting her hand. Smiling pleasantly, like he's proud of her.

Like she's a child.

Like he's correcting her arithmetic.

She takes a steadying breath, looking away from him. Her eyes lock on the basket of bread in the center of the table.

"You want any?" he asks. His own mouth is already full. It's warm brown bread with honey butter.

She shakes her head, looking back up at him.

_He ordered his usual._  It hits her like a fist to the chest, as she looks into his eyes with their crinkled corners and sparkling irises. Ribeye steak, cooked medium. Pink inside, grey on the edges. No red. No blood. He'll drench it in half a bottle's worth of Heinz 57.

"You sure?" He tears off another hunk of bread before he swallows the first. "Now or never."

"I'm fine," she says, trying to smile.

The smile falters. Hung crooked, with nails that won't hold the weight.

He eats. He talks. He talks about new recruits, training, operations. He talks about the clog in the tub. He talks about needing more eggs from the store. He talks about making waffles for breakfast, with the waffle iron they haven't used yet, and it's still in the box, and he doesn't really know how to make them, but it's worth a shot.

He talks about anything but the interview. Anything but the trial.

She leans back in the chair, examining the embroidered edge of the tablecloth.

She twirls her straw before taking a sip of water, and listens to ice clink against the sides of the glass, as loud as a mirror shattering.

She nods. She listens. She smiles.

_she takes off the suit_

* * *

"Do you enjoy this?" His fingers burn a trail up the slope of one thigh. Pale fingers on pale skin. He traces shapes, glyphs, runes on her. Things with ancient, whispered meanings.

She does not answer him. The words burn her tongue. It curls like paper charred at the edges.

"Answer me," he says again, fingers dragging closer towards her center, towards her heat, along the soft flesh of her inner thigh. Brushing upwards. "Answer me truthfully."

She feels dizzy. She feels the air against her exposed skin. She feels the room waver around her, as the answer fights to escape her lips, as she fights to swallow it.

"I don't like this," she whispers, more breath than words.

"You don't want me to touch you?" Brushing, featherlight fluttering touches over soft new skin, untouched skin, skin that was bruised and ripped and torn and he mended it-

"No. I don't." Her voice cracks.

He smiles. A curling, creeping smile with tight corners.

His hand slips from her thigh, and he leans back. His gaze travels up and down the long, white line of her body.

"Spread your legs."

* * *

The world outside the window gleams silver and white. Shadows glance across the hardwood floor.

The clock reads 6:08 AM.

The bed is empty.

She pushes up from the pillows, wincing at the sensation in her palm. Biting. Stinging.

It's a dull pain now, and the hand is bandaged tight. She examines it carefully in the early morning darkness, focusing all of her attention on the ache. The way it throbs along with her lurching pulse.

The door opens slowly, and Wesker  _not Wesker the man she's married to who held her while she fell asleep_  walks in, a mug in his hand. He crosses to her side of the bed, and sits down near her legs.

He reaches out slowly, carefully, like he might place a hand on her hip, on her calf. He stops, letting the hand fall to his side.

"I made you some tea," he said. "You should drink some. And try to sleep a little more."

She looks up at him, and down at the mug, and remembers flashes of things. The silvery clatter of a knife on the floor. Sobs in her throat. His voice in her ear, soft and steady.

The slow, deliberate care he took bandaging her hand.

_Tell me if it's too tight,_ he said.  _Tell me if it hurts,_ again and again.

She looks up at him, and some part of her - some part as thin as a sliver of glass - believes him. Believes his tenderness and his gentleness.

And god, she  _wants_ to believe it. She wants to believe this dream-world where her body isn't broken, where this man brings her tea and holds her while she cries, where her home feels soft and clean and safe -

A thin, piercing sliver of glass, slipping under the skin. Hard to see unless the light catches it right. A dangerous thing to trust.

"Thank you," she whispers, keeping the words held tight to her chest. Keeping her eyes away from his. Looking down to the floor. "For...my hand. And I'm sorry about-"

"Don't." He hands her the mug of tea. Honey and mint, from the smell of it. "Don't apologize."

She holds it with the uninjured hand. The warmth is comforting. She watches steam curl and dissipate in the early morning light. "I still don't know what's happening," she whispers, looking up at him. He's covered in shadows. "This feels like a dream."

But not a dream, because she hurts.

He runs one hand across his face. Tired. Very tired.

"I know," he says, leaning forward. Weight bears down on his shoulders, his back.

"Everything is-"

"I love you." He says it abruptly. "When's the last time I told you that?"

She's silent.

She's stiff.

He keeps speaking. Slow, through a tight jaw. Thin, reedy words. "I don't know if any of this is my fault…if I haven't been paying enough attention…" Two hands on either side of his head now. Bent over, elbows on his knees. Hanging limp. Defeated. "I don't know what to say. I love you."

Tea sloshes in the mug as she moves. Back. Away. Muscles recoiling.

He doesn't notice. He doesn't notice because he doesn't have senses like a snake, like a cat, like a half-human thing. He isn't attuned to every shift in the wind, can't read every slip of her muscles, every snap of her tendons. Can't smell her fear, her sweat, her heat from across the room.

He's just...him.

Sitting with his head in his hands, the way Chris always does.

Turning towards her with a worried, weary face, desperately seeking answers, the way Chris always does.

Saying "I love you," and pulling her close, and tucking her head against his shoulder, the way Chris always does.

_I love you._ He holds her tighter when she stiffens in his arms. And it's his voice, and it's Chris's voice.

_spread your legs,_ another voice says. And it's his voice, and it's her voice, and it slips across her skin like oil.

* * *

"Touch yourself," he tells her.

She is frozen for a moment. Her joints are coated in rust, her muscles in a glaze of ice. She feels them shaking. Straining.

He commanded her.

_He commanded her._

She does not want to follow the order. She does not want to touch herself. She does not want to be on display for him, bared for him-

"Jill," he says, more firmly, and she feels a throbbing at the back of her skull. His voice. Her voice. Oil on her skin.

_Touch yourself._

"Do it now," he says - hisses, with thinning patience - and her vision fades black at the edges. Her thoughts fade to white noise - an endless, meaningless string of  _no no no no no._ But her arm moves, heavy and reluctant. Tangled in weeds. Sinking in a swamp.

"Slowly," he tells her. "Move slowly."

She trails her hand down the taut muscles of her stomach. Down towards the fine dusting of curls between her legs, and when her fingertips brush the skin there, she hesitates. Her breath hitches.

"Further," he says. "One finger."

Her forefinger drifts lower - lower - until it touches the warm, aching slit of her sex. Her jaw trembles.

"Do you want me to watch you touch yourself, Jill?"

His voice weaves in and out and around. Threads pulling tightly at her consciousness.

"No," she breathes.

"'No,' what?"

"I don't...want you to watch…" she stutters, slurs, moving through a dark fog.

"What don't you want me to watch?"

Her mouth is full of sand. She gasps for air. Her finger quivers against the heat of her sex. "I don't want you to watch me touch myself."

"I wonder if that's the truth." He leans back, casually folding his arms across his chest. He gives her an appraising look. Garnet eyes drifting up and down and up again. "Are you wet?"

As if he can't see her, spread open before him, all pink and glistening.

As if he can't smell her, heady and rich, ready to be touched.

"I…"

"Tell me."

Her finger brushes down towards her opening. The skin is slick.

"I'm wet," she tells him. Wet with a dry mouth, dry lips, heavy dry tongue.

"Your clitoris." His eyes are locked between her legs. He doesn't look up as he speaks. "Touch it."

Everything inside her screams.

Everything inside her fights and claws with raw, red fury. Her heart rattles in her ribs. Her breath rattles in her lungs.

She bites hard on her lip. Hard, and she tastes the blood as it flows now, sharp and bitter. It may be the only thing she tastes again.

But her finger drifts back up, settling on the tight bundle of nerves. She bites harder, willing a sting of pain to shake her from the moment.

The pain never comes.

Everything dulled, dead, dying. Everything but the ache between her legs.

"Rub yourself, Jill. Slow circles."

She listens.

She must listen.

She rubs her clit with small, soft movements. The sensation is immediate - warmth spreading, fluttering up through her. Her hips roll a fraction of an inch, seeking a deeper touch.

"Do you like the way it feels, Jill?"

Her answer is a dry pant.

"Do you want to stop?"

"Yes," she says.

He does not answer, but he watches. Watches the finger that rubs the swollen bud at the crest of her sex. Watches the way she fights to keep her hips from bucking. Watches the way her skin flushes, the way her neck cranes back a fraction of an inch.

He does not tell her to stop.

* * *

She raises a bite of asparagus to her lips. Lemony butter drips to the plate.

"I don't know how you can eat that," Chris says, sawing at his steak.

She gives him a little half-smile. One that feels like it might be genuine. "I thought you said Claire was picky-"

_one finger just one slip it inside slow and easy_

The fork falls to the plate with a noisy clatter. Butter splashes onto the tablecloth.

Chris's head jerks up at the sound. His cheek is full of a too-big bite of steak, but he furrows his brow, eyes full of concern.

"Sorry," she mutters, reaching for the fork. Her hand shakes. "I just...my arm...I'm fine."

He nods. Chews. Cuts another hunk of meat.

She pokes at the asparagus again, rolling a spear back through the golden butter. "You were...talking about the mission in Brazil, yeah?"

He nods fervently, chewing quicker. He swallows with a visible gulp. "Yeah. Looking like a Delta level thing. Tip about an arms dealer…"

_spread your legs wider don't be shy it's unbecoming_

"...no idea where the guy got his funding for the operation, but it's been small enough to slip under the radar…"

_two fingers good girl obedient girl curl them inside of you_

"...I think they'll be fine, they just want us on backup in case shit goes south…"

_feel your muscles clenching feel your heat how much you want this ache for this_

"...steak isn't as good this time, yeah? How's-"

She pushes away from the table, tipping the glass of water over. Ice scatters across the floor, and water puddles on the cloth. The couple at the table next to them turn their heads. She feels eyes on her like needles in her skin.

"I have to go," she mumbles, staggering up from the chair. "I'll be...just the restroom, I'll be right back…"

She stumbles towards the bathroom, barely acknowledging Chris's alarmed protests. Barely thinking to lock the door behind her. It smells like dusty potpourri and stale water. She reels forward. Bloodless fingers grub the faux-marble sink.

_slowly slowly slowly don't rush things let the noises out let me hear you_

Her stomach churns as the words churn around her. Echoes. Hallucinations. She raises her eyes to the mirror.

_good girl good slick wet girl obedient girl_

They're blue. Ice blue. Ice like her pale skin.

Ice like her hair.

Like her pale frost-colored hair, her hair that looks like snow beneath the lights, no chestnut, no brown, no patch shaved short, not hers, it isn't hers-

_tell me you want to stop_

_tell me again_

_beg me_

She tears her eyes away, retching over the sink.

* * *

"Please," she whispers, thighs quivering.

Her fingers are damp. The sheet beneath her is damp. It's been so long - so, so, so long. Slow then fast, rise then fall, closer and closer and closer to the edge, while he watches her.

She's slick with sweat. Her hand is sore. Her clit aches. Her muscles clench desperately around her fingers.

"One more," he says.

She slips a third finger inside. She keens at the pressure, exquisite and terrible, and she trembles beneath his gaze.

"That's it," he whispers, watching the glistening curl of her body, the way it arches and bends and bows, as she works the digits in and out, in and out. "Fill yourself. Stretch yourself."

She rolls her hips towards her fingers. Her other hand clutches the sheets, curling to a tight fist in the fabric. She cries out, wordless, wailing. Desperate.  _Please_ on her tongue and in her throat and under her skin.  _Please_ dripping warm and wet between her thighs.  _Please stop. Please no more. Please I don't want this. Please._

"Finish," he says at last. At long last. A lazy, half-hearted word, and he glances away, examining a patch of rust on the metal frame of the bed.

_Finish._

She shatters. She hears her own voice echoing around the room, hears herself gasping, feels her body shaking with the force of her climax, and her fingers are slick, her thighs are slick, the scent of sex fills the air, he doesn't tell her to stop, doesn't let her stop, pushes her through wave after wave and crest after crest-

-she wakes up in a glass case.

A butterfly with pins in her wings.

_she cannot breathe_

A wisp of hair, white-gold, floats in front of her face.

Liquid clouds her vision. It's hot. Cold. Hot. It stings.

_she cannot breathe_

She screams-

"Hey."

There's a hand on her forehead. Her eyes flutter open.

"Bad dream again?" Chris's voice parts the darkness. She blinks at the shadow of him - propped on one elbow, leaning over her.

She tries to roll onto her back. Forgets she can't. Winces at the sharp pain in her side, the ache in her spine.

"Yeah," she says in a strained voice, settling back. "The tubes. The lab." She turns her head towards the nightstand. The little clock shows that it's nearly three in the morning.

"I figured," he says. "You had a rough day. Try to relax."

She nods. She lays still, closing her eyes. The ache subsides.

"The dreams will pass soon." A voice that isn't Chris's. Long, thin fingers pushing damp locks of hair from her forehead.

She opens her eyes, blinking. The room is bright with late-morning sun. The man who isn't Wesker, the man who can't be Wesker, is standing across the room. He's shifting through clothes in the dresser - a stack of crisply folded undershirts.

"I set the appointment for two this afternoon," he says, selecting a shirt and smoothing it out. She turns to the nightstand. The clock reads five past ten. An empty mug sits beside it. "Do you need to bathe first? I'll help with your hair-"

She closes her eyes again, tight. She takes a shaking breath, and hears it whirl in her chest.

She hears herself screaming.

She hears the mattress shift, the distinctive grunt Chris makes as he pushes himself up. Old injury in his lower back.

She hears herself begging.

She hears footsteps headed towards the bathroom. She hears knobs turning, and water rushing as it fills the tub.

She smells lavender and spices and crisp linens and old metal and the heavy scent of sex.

She sees light and dark and light again.

_Rest,_ someone is saying.

_Rest._

She hears herself screaming.


End file.
